


any port in a storm alternate opening

by mishcollin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:30:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2718836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishcollin/pseuds/mishcollin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cas falls, he crash-lands in Spain. (Alternate beginning to Any Port in a Storm.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	any port in a storm alternate opening

**Author's Note:**

> So this was actually the original draft I wrote for the beginning of APIAS while it was still a different fic, and it's lengthy enough that I figured it was worth a publish, if anyone's interested. Also, I just really wanted it out of my drafts. It's mostly Cas POV post-fall. Sorry.
> 
> (Oh, as for the scene with Leiliel--as I said, this was originally a different fic that was much more focused on the S8/S9 canonverse.)

When Cas falls to Earth, he crash-lands in Spain.

He doesn't realize that until later, though. When he first lands, the world is a pitch-black haze around him, save for the falling angels dotting the sky like comets. Cas begins to run, his human heart feeling like it's twisting into knots inside his chest, and is that supposed to happen? Is it supposed to feel like someone's scooped out his insides with a giant spoon, leaving a hollow shell behind?

Cas stops running at the break in the treeline, his breath lodged sharply in his throat when he looks up to his siblings raining from the skies. He's not an angel anymore, but he can still hear their wails of agony. His eyes close, but the vision of falling lights is printed on the backs of his eyes like a van Gogh painting.

_Please, God, no._

Cas' face feels strangely wet, and he raises a shaking hand to his face and realizes, somewhat distantly, that his cheeks are streaked with tears. His mortal, anatomical, human, responsive body is reacting to the trauma--of course.

He pulls his fingers away to stare at the wetness in confusion, before he hesitantly brings them to his mouth to taste. It's acrid, salty, and Cas has tasted before, of course, but has never been _confined_ to taste, has never been tied intrinsically to five senses; he can't cleanse the tang of blood from the back of his throat, can't block out the screaming cries of his brothers and sisters, can't stop seeing lights falling around him. He can absently, through a haze of panic and what he suspects is grief, smell the bluebells that indicates he's somewhere in the southern Spanish countryside.

Cas still feels disconnected from his own flesh, like he's a star bottled up in skin, tied with chains to a skeleton that's not his, but he's not a star, not anymore. Metatron had carved the cosmos right out of him.

His human body, a complex, self-operating structure of bone and flesh and muscle, breathes for him; it aches in all the wrong places, down to his marrow, in the center of his beating heart.

Cas sinks to his knees, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes fiercely until color bursts behind them.

"Please," he says, to no one in particular, "please," and he isn't quite sure when he falls asleep, but the next thing he knows, he's blinking awake and it's dawn. The soft wheedle of birds around him and the curls of mist off the long, dewy grass almost allow him to forget where he is. Then he blinks, squints, readjusts, and sees faint golden meteors against the pale light of the morning sky, earthbound.

A noise escapes Cas' throat, unbidden--he thinks it might be a whimper, before he twists onto his side. His clothes are soaked through with dew, and his breath pours out of his lungs in thin clouds. Everything feels…more visceral, somehow. He can feel the sweat soaking the armpits of his shirt and coat, and the soft clatter of his teeth in the cold. The aroma of bluebells is saccharine, almost sickly sweet to the taste.

Cas blinks, a little more slowly, and refocuses on a doe not fifteen feet away from him, where she's frozen in her tracks at the realization of Cas' presence.

Cas sits up slowly, so as not to startle her.

"Hello," he says softly, and she's still locked in place, her large ears cupped forward. "You don't have to be scared of me."

There was a time when Cas didn't have to speak; he could simply reach out, feel her life’s energy pouring off her, and calm her with barely a second thought.

At the sound of Cas' voice, the deer takes off in graceful leaps until she all but vanishes into the surrounding trees, save for the bob of a white tail.

Cas sighs, disheartened, and figures he should at least try to get to a phone, given his is long dead and won't work out of the country anyway.

With a quick stab of realization, Cas remembers the Winchesters were supposed to be shutting hell, at the possible price of Sam's life. Had they done it? Cas had, to put it nicely, royally fucked things up on his end, but maybe, he thinks with hope, Sam and Dean pulled it off. Shut the gates forever. Sealed off hell for good.

It's this treacherously optimistic thought that propels Cas to his feet and toward the nearest highway, where he resolutely turns his face away from the sight of his brothers and sisters plummeting like wingless birds from the heavens.

\---

The movies, Cas reflects, are a lie. No one stops for hitchhikers.

Granted, this highway is one long stretch of empty, but the few cars that do come whipping along resolutely ignore Cas, or honk at him to get off the road. Dust from the shoulder of the highway whips up in dry gusts, making his eyes sting, and as the sun climbs higher into the sky and his mouth dries out, his confidence in his ability to find a ride to civilization is quickly quashed.

The sun is baking, after all. By noon, Cas is thoroughly drenched with his own perspiration, and eventually, after another hour passes, he peels off his trenchcoat and shirt and trudges the length of the highway with his torso bare, figuring there isn't anyone to balk at his half-nudity anyway.

Finally, after around what he imagines is three in the afternoon, he perches on the side of the highway and gives up in a fume of despair and frustration. Whenever he imagined his fate, it wasn't exhausted, drenched, and stinking of sweat, rotting in the carcass of his own humanity on a Spanish roadside, but, he reflects bitterly, it isn't anything less than he deserves. Probably more, if he thinks of it.

Taking a huge, gulping breath, he presses his forehead slowly to his kneecaps, where the skin sticks with sweat. The underside of his kneecap is swollen with a large red bite of some sort, which he can't stop itching. Humans can die from lack of water, can't they? Humans can die from a lot of things. Overheating, dehydration, disease. Throwing themselves in front of oncoming cars.

He mentally and methodically plumbs through a list of human ways to die as he stares at his hands, which are trembling finely with overexhaustion. He comes up with 107 before he gives up. Jimmy had nice hands; tan, slender fingers, smooth skin, finely shaped knuckles and wide, gentle palms. Cas supposes these are his hands now, as perhaps they were long ago, and sends up a quiet and futile apology to Jimmy Novak, wherever his soul has ended up misplaced.

Cas thinks he imagines the distant rumble of a motor engine; there's a faint roaring in his ears where they've been boxed by the wind, but he looks up anyway and blinks through the hot dust when he sees a pickup careening his way.

He doesn't even have the effort to stand, just half-heartedly thrusts out a hand with his thumb up, and much to his surprise, the pickup, a rusty red, peeling old facsimile of a truck, screeches to a stop in front of him, sending more dust gusting up hotly from the road. Cas blinks, squints, then stares in bewilderment as the window cranks down. He's met by imploring green eyes, framed by dark lashes.

"Get in," the girl says.

Cas dumbly staggers to his feet, remembering at the last moment to toss on his sweat-soaked shirt as he clambers into the car. He shuts the door behind him with a loud, groaning creak of the hinges, and the car peels off down the road.

"Thank y--" he starts to say, but the girl doesn't allow him to finish.

"We’re a little short on time for niceties, Castiel," she says, and instantly Cas' fog of exhaustion thins, as though he's been injected with adrenaline.

"Who are you?" Cas asks, straightening, going instinctively for the angel blade in his sleeve before remembering with a sinking feeling that Metatron had confiscated it.

"My name is Leiliel," the girl replies, pinning him with a sharp gaze again, "and I'm about the only creature out of heaven that doesn't want to gut you."

The sinking feeling returns in a large, sickening swoop. "Our siblings. They're…angry, about Metatron's spell?"

"They don't know it was Metatron's spell," Leiliel corrects. "They think it was you."

Cas' mouth, if possible, dries out more. "How could…how could they they think I would do this to us intentionally? I--I would never…" His head suddenly spins, and this, he thinks as he sinks back against the sweaty, leather truck seat, must be what true nausea feels like.

"They don't know that," Leiliel says, swerving suddenly to pass another car on the highway. "Given the whole…you know, God debacle."

Cas buries his head in his hands and breathes in, slowly. He starts counting his breaths into the creaking silence, trying to match them to guttural puttering of the engine.

"How many," he finally croaks. "How many fell."

Leiliel's gaze, still pointed but perhaps more gentle now, swings to him again. "All of them."

"And how do you know they're wrong?" Cas asks, a hint of acidity creeping into his tone. "Why aren't you trying to kill me like the others?"

Leiliel grimaces, and the expression appears strange on her, as if she had just learned how to do it. "I worked for Metatron, a very long time ago. I was one of his emissaries, when he was scribing the word of God. I, and a few others, followed him when he was chased from heaven because we genuinely believed in him. But I saw the darkness festering inside him, his…bloodlust, and his vengeance. It frightened me, and I returned to heaven." Leiliel shook her head, sending her blond braids swaying. Her vessel can't be more than seventeen, Cas thinks. "I knew what he planned, but never imagined he'd gain the means to do it. He was a pariah, and half-crazed with rage, without any following base. Then he fell off the grid, and I just assumed he was dead." Her mouth flattens into a thin line, and she takes a deep breath before she says, "The fall was my fault as much as yours, Castiel. I could've told somebody, but I kept my mouth shut out of fear of accusation." She pauses and winces, a freckled hand flying to her temple. "They're raging in my head. Can you hear them?"

Cas shakes his head, slowly processing what Leiliel has told him. "Metatron took my grace. I'm entirely human now."

Leiliel doesn't appear surprised. She bobs her head once and refastens her hands on the wheel. "They're lost and angry and confused, so they're focusing on one target that they can blame. Does it really surprise you that it's you?"

Cas feels his mouth thin into a grim line. "No. And I don't blame them, either."

"For what it's worth," Leiliel says. "I'm on your side. And I will fight for you."

"No," Cas protests quickly, shaking his head. "No, I could never ask that of you. It's a suicide mission, Leiliel."

Leiliel shrugs, much more blasé than Cas suspects she feels. Her hands, mapped with freckles, tremble in either excitement or nervousness on the carpeted steering wheel. "I've always believed the mission that you've advocated. I followed you in the war against Raphael, and I will follow you again. Heaven has been corrupt for centuries now. Out of the all the misguided leaders' agendas that I've seen, yours at least has the purest intentions."

Cas swallows, and he experiences the same blocked throat sensation as he had the previous night when he'd watched the angels fall. "That's much more than I deserve. I can't articulate what it means to me."

Leiliel nods, and the car falls silent.

"You aren't at all bitter about the fall?" Cas finally asks, sometime later. "You don't at all miss home?"

The look Leiliel casts him is unspokenly, unquestionably sad, but her lips quirk up nonetheless. "I don't mind humans. I've always wanted to try pizza, anyway."

It's a poor attempt at levity, but Cas smiles anyway. It makes his face ache.

"But you have to understand," Leiliel says, "that traveling with you is like painting a giant 'kick me' sign on my back. I will fight for you, Castiel, but I am quite interested in my own self-preservation if it's in the cards."

"Of course. I wouldn't ask you anymore of you than what you've already given me."

"We're close to Córdoba," she says. "Is there someone you can call?"

 _Dean_ , Cas thinks, and his heart gives a strange, unbidden twist of worry. "Yes. I have….a friend."

"You'll have to lay low for a few days," Leiliel instructs, clicking her blinker to change lanes. "There are angels everywhere."

"You're quite well-adjusted," Cas notes, and Leiliel smiles at him with teeth this time.

"I like earth," she confesses with a half-shrug. "I've spent a good amount of my vacation time here."

Cas snorts, and Leiliel's smile softens and widens.

"Thank you, Leiliel," Cas says again, quietly, as sunlight flickers in stripes on the window-glass. "I don't know how I can repay you."

"You can start by not directly getting me killed," Leiliel suggests, and a peculiar look crosses her face. Another moment passes, and she adds, "And it's Lily now."

Lily, as it is, drops him off at a phonebooth with a handful of change, a half-eaten bag of potato chips, and a frank, “Godspeed,” before she peels off, leaving Cas alone in the dust.

The phone is sticky with residue, smears of dry sweat on the peeling plastic, and Cas hesitates before placing it to his cheek. The dial tone rings like a low drone in his ears as he punches in Dean’s number by heart, then slips four coins into the slot with shaking hands.

The dial tone goes once, twice, three times. By the fourth, Cas is mouthing, “please,” his finger tracing the spine of the phone’s cord.

There’s a click, a rustle, then a suspicious, “Hello?” crackling through the line.

Cas’ throat closes up. Although he can’t bend time or space anymore, suddenly the oceans and roads of distance between them seem compounded into a surmountable speck. “Dean.”

There’s a pause--Cas imagines it to be hesitant--before Dean asks, incredulously, “ _Cas_?”

“Yes, it’s...it’s me.”

Dean’s breath punches out over the line. “Thank God,” he says, as though he doesn’t mean to say it. “Sam and I thought you--we saw the angels fell and we...I tried praying but you…”

Cas gets this strange, tight feeling in his throat again, like his chest is packed tight with saltwater. “I’m okay.” He doesn’t really mean it, but he thinks it might be what Dean wants to hear.

“Good,” Dean says, after another tinny moment of radio silence. “Yeah, good. Where the hell are you? I’ll come get you.”

“I’m in Spain.”

“You’re _what_?”

“Spain.”

“Spain…..Nebraska? Or something?”

“No, Dean.”

“Christ.” Cas thinks he hears Dean take in a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll fly to you, okay?”

“No,” Cas says quickly, and the unintended irony of Dean’s offer isn’t lost on him. “Dean, you can’t. It’s not safe with me; outside the bunker. Please, stay.”

“Well, what the hell are you going to do? You don’t have money, food, a place to sleep. I’ll catch the first flight out to Madrid tomorrow--”

“Aren’t you mad at me?” Cas says, and Dean goes quiet on the other end. “I started this. I caused it. I didn’t listen to you. Don’t you resent me? You should be furious.”

He’s surprised to hear Dean laugh, low in his throat on the other line. “Maybe I should be.”

“You should be.”

“But I don’t care. Seriously, Cas, I don’t care. I just want you home. Okay?”

Cas’ throat feels locked up again. He says, much more quietly, “Okay.”

“If you’re that bent on me staying, I’ll wire some money to you for a flight back. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” Cas says with much more confidence than he feels. “Is Sam okay?”

“He’s…” Dean’s voice seems to move away from the phone before he returns, much closer. “He’s not doing the best, but he’s seen worse. He’ll come out of it. I know he will.”

“I believe you,” Cas says, his voice hitching. He has this strange, weighted feeling like he has to say something, like the conversation is piquing toward a statement of great importance on his end, and he says, unthinkingly, “Dean.”

“Hey, listen, Cas--”

The line goes dead, and Cas pulls back in surprise to see the coin meter blinking.

Cas curses and fumbles in his coat pocket for more coins, but comes up with a few American bills.

He pockets them again, mops his brow, and starts walking.


End file.
